


Missed Connections

by FriendofCarlotta



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, At least until 15x12 comes out, Canon Compliant, Cas' Deal with the Empty, Castiel POV, Castiel in the Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Dean Winchester POV, Drunken Confessions, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, human!Cas, some smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:55:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22912084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendofCarlotta/pseuds/FriendofCarlotta
Summary: To celebrate Jack's return from the Empty, Dean and Cas share a drink in the bunker's kitchen. What they don't expect is that this is the night their decade-long story has been leading up to. The night that will change everything.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester/Lisa Braeden (background)
Comments: 43
Kudos: 282





	Missed Connections

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! This fic was inspired by a desire to connect some of the many, many pieces of Dean and Cas' story over the years and put them into a framework that makes sense for where they are now. 
> 
> If you enjoy, or have suggestions for improvement, let me know in the comments!

**The Past**

This Castiel knows: the souls in the Pit are cowering, creeping, fractured things. They are nothing like the human souls he has observed on Earth, from a distance.

No two human souls are completely alike, of course. Some shine more brightly than others — take up more space somehow in the fabric of the universe. Humans perceive these souls as charismatic — they belong to those individuals who can effortlessly command loyalty in others.

Yet, all human souls share certain traits. They shimmer with brightness; color and shape shifting in tune with the feelings of the person they inhabit. They are ever-moving and evolving. They are beautiful.

The souls in Hell are none of these things. The closest comparison Castiel can draw is to a bird whose neck has been broken, or a human head with a gaping hole where a laughing face should be. There is a profound sense of wrongness about these souls.

All this, Castiel knows. All this, he unlearns when he first perceives the Righteous Man. Forty years in Hell have tarnished this man’s soul, but they have not unmade it. Castiel thinks of a hand-crafted cabinet, ornately decorated with images of trees, mountains and birds — its colors faded with age and its carefully carved lines covered with a thin layer of dust, but its beauty ultimately undiminished.

Dean Winchester’s soul cowers before Castiel’s true form, whose expanse and humming power must seem imposing even in the cavernous vaults of Hell. It turns away from the rack where it was busy hacking into the essence of another human, whose screams still reverberate through the endless, smoky ether stretching into unseen vastness beyond Castiel.

Castiel’s Grace reaches out and envelops the Righteous Man’s soul, cradling it like a precious jewel. Painstakingly, Castiel heals the blemishes upon it as best he can. He is not an archangel; his Grace is not sufficient to remove all traces of Hell. When this soul is reunited with its body, the Righteous Man will be plagued by horrible nightmares, Castiel thinks. He feels a brief surge of anger, but tamps it down.

Anger is a human emotion. Human emotions are undesirable, discouraged, and angels are only permitted to observe them from afar.

Gathering himself for flight, Castiel tightens his grip on Dean Winchester’s soul, and he soars. “Do not be afraid,” he whispers, but he is not sure whether this particular human’s soul can perceive an angelic voice or understand its meaning. He finds himself hoping it can.

Castiel surfaces minutes later, in a field near Pontiac, Illinois. He begins the slow, draining work of restoring Dean Winchester’s soul to his body. He pays no attention to the resulting blast wave, even as it uproots the trees around him, scattering them in a perfect circle that reaches as far as a quarter mile in each direction. He remains focused on his task.

The last thing he does is wipe the Righteous Man’s memory of his recent resurrection. This, at least, he can do.

Then, Castiel moves his being just slightly out of alignment with Earth’s plane of reality, enough to be able to watch without being perceived. Castiel has observed humans in this way since the dawn of creation; it is a state of being that feels more natural to him than anything else. Castiel waits.

Seven minutes and 32 seconds later, Dean Winchester’s hand breaks free of the cracked, used-up soil. 

**The Present**

This Dean Winchester knows: he can be an asshat sometimes. Honestly, he has trouble figuring out why anyone would want to be around him for more than 10 minutes at a time.

He swears too much; he drinks too much. He says things he doesn’t mean, or that he does mean, but they come out wrong.

Like right now.

“Think we can get Michael to open a rift to Purgatory every time we get into a fight?”

He’s sitting at the bunker’s kitchen table, Cas to his right, their knees very carefully not touching.

Sam’s retreated to his room; it’s a thing he’s been doing ever since Eileen left. Dean and Cas had sat with Jack for a while, enjoying the feeling of being a family again. But it had been a rough couple of days for Jack, trying to stay under the radar while hunting Grigori, and he’d eventually called it a night too.

Now, Cas’ whiskey tumbler is suspended halfway along the way to his mouth. He’s giving Dean a sideways squint, that little frown line between his eyes working overtime.

Cas lowers the glass, setting it back on the table. “I’m not entirely sure you’re joking, which should probably worry me.”

Somehow, his voice sounds even more gravelly than usual; Dean blames the ever-dwindling level of whiskey in the bottle between them. Maybe as Cas’ Grace is fading, so is his resistance to the effects of alcohol? Dean tries not to let his mind dwell on the possibilities.

Instead, he shrugs. “I just mean… with us talking again, and having Jack back, it almost feels like things might turn out alright.” Dean takes a moment to consider how he wants to word this next part. Choosing his words carefully around Cas has been a staple of his life for the past decade, to the point where he barely even notices he’s doing it anymore. “So I’m glad we worked it out, man. And sorry in advance for the next time I screw things up.”

“Which you will, inevitably.” The slightly amused inflection in Cas’ tone is the only tell that he’s joking.

Dean huffs a laugh and takes a sip from his tumbler. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

**The Past**

Castiel has had confidence in many things. His Father, his brothers, Heaven’s orders. Lately, that confidence has been shaken.

He sits in a hospital room in Cheyenne, Wyoming, and watches as Dean Winchester cries.

“Find someone else,” Dean is saying, his voice small and choked. “It’s not me.”

Irrationally, Castiel finds himself wishing he had that kind of power. The power to take the weight of the Apocalypse off Dean’s shoulders.

Heaven’s plan is just, Castiel reminds himself, but the words hold less weight than his sudden, fierce desire to reach out and touch Dean’s hand. To provide some measure of comfort to his broken body; just as he did to Dean’s broken soul when he raised it from Perdition seven months and three days ago.

It’s less than the blink of an eye in the eternity of his existence.

And yet, for the first time, Castiel is considering disobedience. Heaven’s plan is just, he thinks again. But the words feel feebler every time they pass through his mind, and then something else takes their place: Heaven’s plan isn’t fair. It isn’t fair to Dean. So how can it be just?

**The Present**

“It’s just… I was so angry in the first place because before…” Dean swallows. “It seemed like we had everything we needed, you know?” He pours himself another drink, the bottle now more than half empty. “We had Jack, Sam was getting better, and…” Dean pointedly ignores the sick feeling in his gut, forcing himself to continue. “You know, Mom and Bobby seemed like they had a good thing going.”

Cas nods slowly, looking unusually interested in a little speck of food that’s stuck to the tabletop — probably left over from the last time Dean cooked for everyone in here. A lifetime ago.

Before he can argue himself out of it, Dean adds, “You and me…” He really wishes Cas would tell him how to finish that sentence, but when he doesn’t, Dean goes with, “We were, you know, good. As good as we ever get.”

Cas still won’t look up at him, but finally, he says, “Yes. We were.”

Dean takes another sip, for courage. “Maybe even on our way to being happy. You know, about time.” He chances a quick look at Cas, his pulse suddenly picking up the pace.

Cas gives a barely-there nod. It doesn’t seem like he’s going to say anything though, and Dean suddenly finds that he really, really needs him to.

“That would be good, right? Being happy?”

Cas does look up then, his eyes open wide, vulnerable. Whatever emotion is coloring those eyes, it isn’t happiness, and Dean suddenly wishes he hadn’t said anything.

**The Past**

“Say something, Castiel,” the voice sneers. “Whom do you serve?”

The words are sharp-edged, grazing painfully through every inch of Castiel’s form. He has been stripped from his vessel by force, and he feels raw, vulnerable, violated.

He knows he is somewhere in Heaven, but there is no light; no landmarks to orient himself by. Heaven is his home, yet he has never felt so adrift.

“Whom do you serve?” The voice thunders again, filling the echoing space whose ends Castiel is unable to perceive. He cannot remember how many times he has heard the question, nor how many times he has answered it. He tries again.

“I serve Heaven.”

His brother laughs, but there is no amusement in it. “Liar,” the voice hisses.

Castiel thinks his interrogator is Nathaniel, but it is hard to tell. Since his interrogation began — 18 hours, 28 minutes and 43 seconds ago — his mind has been torn into so many times, by so many different angels, that he is losing track. So instead, he focuses on keeping track of the time. Perhaps, this will help him keep his thoughts clear of the effects of the near-constant pain. Perhaps he can think his way out of this situation.

He cannot. It takes another 20 hours, 36 minutes and three seconds until his brothers are satisfied with him.

“Do you serve humanity?”

“I do not.”

“Do you serve Dean Winchester?”

“I do not.”

“Whom do you serve?”

“Heaven.”

The voice changes; it becomes insinuating, almost gentle.

“You may return to Earth now, Castiel. The next time you disobey, you won’t find us so… forgiving.”

Castiel thinks he should feel comforted. He has been forgiven for his transgression. And yet, all he can feel inside is an absence. The absence of anger, of love, of any emotion whatsoever. Empty.

**The Present**

“I made a deal with the Empty,” Cas says.

Dean’s mind is running a mile a minute, working through all the possible responses. Anything from an incoherent string of curses to a flippant “You’re really one of the family now, buddy. ‘I made a deal’ is basically the Winchester motto.”

He settles for, “You what?” Trying hard to keep the anger out of his voice, even though he can feel it seething, waiting to break loose.

He knows Cas can feel it too. It’s visible in the way his shoulders stiffen ever so slightly, gearing up for a confrontation. Dean looks on as Cas makes a conscious effort to relax; to diffuse the situation.

“When I went to Heaven for Jack’s soul, the Empty was there too, looking for him.” Cas is talking more quickly than usual, words trying to make it out into the world before Dean can stop them. “It tricked me. It possessed Dumah and followed me until I found Jack.”

Cas looks up at Dean, eyes pleading for understanding. Dean forces himself to keep listening. They _just_ made up. If he loses it on Cas now, they might never be able to pick up the pieces again.

Cas sighs heavily, looking relieved that Dean is still letting him talk. “It was going to take him, Dean. Take away our chance at getting our son back. I couldn’t let that happen. So I offered myself instead.”

Dean nods. He wants to tread carefully, he really does, but he can’t help the sharp edge that creeps into his voice when he says, “And yet you’re still here.”

Cas flinches ever so slightly. Dean wants to take it back, the way “you’re still here” sounded just a little bit like an accusation. Instead, he waits until Cas talks again.

“Remember when I told you I annoyed an ancient cosmic being so much that it sent me back?” Cas hunches forward, eyes fixed on the table again. “Apparently, it holds a grudge.”

Dean would prefer not to think about that time of his life; those months after he burned Cas’ body. It’s more or less a blur of drunken rages, followed by hangovers and more drunken rages. He’d only slowed down on the drinking after Sam had pulled him aside one night and said Dean was starting to remind him of Dad.

Dean waves that thought away, because he doesn’t think Cas really answered his question. “OK, but I don’t see what that has to do…”

“The Empty said it didn’t want me right away,” Cas breaks in. “It said it wanted me to suffer. Go back to my normal life and forget. And then, it said, when I finally give myself permission to be happy, it’ll come for me.”

“OK.” Dean nods quietly down at his drink, shoulders hunched, every muscle coiled. “OK. Let me tell you something.”

**The Past**

“Let me tell you something,” Dean says. “There are two things I know for certain. One, Bert and Ernie are gay. Two, you are _not_ gonna die a virgin. Not on my watch. Let’s go.”

Castiel doesn’t think he’s ever had more questions about any statement in the entirety of his existence. As he slowly follows Dean out of the house and ambles toward the Impala, he ponders some of them.

Why is Dean so bothered by the idea that Castiel has never engaged in intercourse with anyone? Who are Bert and Ernie, and how do they enter into the conversation? Why is Dean so convinced these men are in a relationship? But perhaps most importantly, what exactly is Dean planning to do about Castiel’s lack of sexual experience?

In all his time observing humans, Castiel has certainly had occasion to see human intercourse, of both the heterosexual and same-sex varieties. Both appear to be pleasurable at certain times, but not at other times.

As Dean shifts the Impala into gear and pulls out of the abandoned house’s driveway, he seems very determined to look straight at the road. Castiel has never seen him this focused on driving. It’s more common for him to chat idly, shooting an occasional grin at Castiel in the passenger seat.

At least, Castiel thinks, this unusual silence is giving him more time to contemplate the strange way this evening is going.

Suddenly, a new and thrilling thought occurs to Castiel. Is Dean offering himself as a sexual partner?

Castiel finds the idea not altogether unpleasant. He remembers sitting at Dean’s hospital bed, longing to reach out and offer comfort. It was the first time he wanted to be physically close to Dean — or any human — but certainly not the last.

He remembers Dean touching his shoulder in Heaven’s Beautiful Room and, later, Castiel himself crowding Dean against the wall, hand over his mouth, their eyes locked in silent conversation.

Castiel remembers the anger that surged through him a few months later, when Dean mocked his plan of looking for his Father. How it impelled him towards Dean and forced him to reveal something he’d never fully admitted to himself. _I’m hunted. I rebelled. And I did it, all of it, for you._

Castiel shakes his head, trying to clear it. Surely, if Dean wanted to do this, they could have just stayed at the house, instead of driving down the highway into town. Then again, Castiel has known Dean for long enough to understand that he likes to spend time in bars with his prospective sexual partners. Maybe they’re going to a bar? Maybe they’ll share a drink — Castiel isn’t much affected by alcohol, of course, but he is willing to indulge in whatever makes Dean comfortable — and then return to the house to have intercourse? 

Castiel is soon disabused of this notion.

Before his mind is fully wrapped around the idea of having intercourse with anyone, let alone Dean, he finds himself in one of the back rooms of a den of iniquity, opposite an attractive blond woman whose name appears to be Chastity of all things. She advances towards him, lips twisted up in a suggestive leer.

Castiel suddenly realizes he can’t face being intimate with someone he shares no emotional connection with. So he reaches out to touch Chastity’s forehead, his Grace grasping for her memories.

What he finds there disturbs him and, more than anything else, he wants to offer this woman comfort. So what he says is: “Don’t worry. It wasn’t your fault that your father Gene left. He just didn’t enjoy his job at the post office.”

Before Castiel can so much as collect his thoughts, Chastity is screaming at him and chasing him out of the room. Dean appears from somewhere and demands an explanation.

Castiel provides the facts of what he said in Chastity’s room, hoping Dean will be able to explain how things have come to such a bewildering conclusion. A grin lighting his face, Dean herds Castiel out the back door — only to double over laughing when they reach the alley.

Castiel, extremely discomfited by the whole experience, frowns at him. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing,” Dean wheezes. “It’s been a long time since I’ve laughed that hard. It’s been more than a long time. Years.”

**The Present**

“Two years ago,” Dean says hesitantly, “when… when you died.” Dean notices absently that even thinking of Cas and death in the same sentence still sends a stab of pain through his chest. He forces himself to look at Cas, wanting him to know that what he is about to say is important. “I was a wreck.”

Every line of Cas’ face is soft with regret. “Dean…”

“No, Cas, let me get this out.” Dean takes another gulp of whiskey, steeling himself. “I was torn up about… about Mom being gone too, of course.” He gives a dry little laugh. “Hell, even about Crowley.”

Cas answers with a small smile, just enough to encourage Dean to continue.

“But losing you… I don’t know, it just… I couldn’t deal with it.” Dean swallows heavily, trying to keep a hold on the memories crowding into his head. Screaming at Sam. Punching the door of a bathroom somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Wrapping Cas in a curtain for his burial, because he didn’t have anything else to use.

“I can’t do that again, Cas.”

Dean watches Cas hesitate a moment, like he’s trying to make sure Dean has said all he wants to say. Slowly, Cas reaches out to put a hand on Dean’s arm. “I don’t want to die, Dean. But at the time, it seemed like a good trade; Jack’s life for mine.”

Dean nods. He can definitely understand that. He’s traded his life for Sam’s, or tried to, more times than he can count.

“Then, when the Empty said it wouldn’t come for me until I allowed myself to be happy, I wasn’t too worried,” Cas says, smiling ruefully. “The life we live, the life of a hunter… it isn’t generally very happy.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Dean tries not to notice that Cas is still holding on to his arm. “But the point I’m trying to make here is… if there’s a way, any chance at all, that we can break this deal, I’m gonna take it. I’m not watching you die again.”

**The Past**

Watching Dean is one of the few pleasures Castiel allows himself these days. He likes to see Dean doing little projects around Lisa’s house — fixing the roof, mowing the lawn or, as he is doing now, raking leaves in the yard.

It hasn’t escaped Castiel’s notice that Dean isn’t happy, exactly. He drinks too much; he often stays up late, crying softly and reading through lore books in an apparent attempt to discover how Sam can be rescued from Hell.

Of course, Dean’s worry on that account is entirely unnecessary, and Castiel is often tempted to tell him so. But then he remembers the day he returned with Sam from Hell and touched his forehead to wipe the traumatic memories of the recent resurrection from his mind.

Immediately, a profound sense of wrongness slammed into Castiel and he had to retrieve his hand to gather himself. Slowly, carefully, he reached out with his Grace to try and perceive the colors of Sam’s soul. Instead, he found nothing but a gaping pit.

There was no way to be sure of the state of Sam’s soul without physically touching him again, and Castiel suddenly found he did not want to. Rendering himself imperceptible to the human eye, he followed Sam for a few days, until they reached a small house in Cicero, Indiana.

Castiel watched as Sam waited outside the house for an hour, barely moving. Through the window, Castiel could see Dean, seated at a table with a woman and a boy of maybe 12, having dinner. There was a smile on Dean’s face, Castiel saw, but he had known enough of Dean’s smiles to recognize how much effort this one was taking.

Sam had left then, and Castiel had not followed. He told himself that the brothers’ bond was strong, and Sam would return to find Dean when he was ready. He told himself any number of things, but he couldn’t shake the profound sense of wrongness he had felt when touching Sam. He had tried to make things right for Dean, and he had failed.

Over the coming months, Castiel found himself returning to Cicero again and again. He watched as Dean began to work construction, made friends and attempted to find a place for himself. Castiel liked seeing these things; they were normal, human things.

Abstractly, he knew that Dean sharing a bed with Lisa, kissing her good morning, brushing the hair off her forehead when they crossed paths around the house — these were normal, human things too. But he couldn’t help the small, clenching feeling in his stomach whenever he witnessed these displays of affection.

Today, Castiel has come to ask for Dean’s help. He knows it will come to war between him and Raphael, and he can’t defeat an archangel on his own. Realistically, Castiel is unsure what Dean will be able to do to help him in this fight, but he always has a way of putting things in perspective with his easy smile and his insistence that they can face any challenge, together.

Watching the muscles of Dean’s back shift beneath his jacket as he rakes the last of the year’s leaves, and aching with a near-unbearable compulsion to render himself visible, Castiel realizes he is in love.

Castiel supposes it’s poetic, in a way, that temptation has come to him in a garden.

The thought is only rendered more apt when he hears the sound of footsteps behind him, and a voice saying, “Ah, Castiel. Angel of Thursday. Just not your day, is it?”

Castiel tears his eyes away from Dean and turns to face Crowley, prepared to do whatever is necessary to keep Dean out of this fight.

**The Present**

“This is not your fight, Dean, do you understand? I will not let you put yourself in danger on my account.” Cas’ voice is rising, the anger flashing in his eyes matching Dean’s own.

Dean can feel the red haze blotting out his vision and does nothing to stop it. “You’re a fucking idiot, you know that?”

Cas freezes, looking like he’s been slapped in the face. Dean knows he needs to say this next part to make it better, and it’s the only thing that keeps him talking.

“Any fight you’re in is my fight, do you hear? You’re my best friend. You’re my family. And…” Dean can feel every cell in his body screaming for him to stop, retreat, reconsider. But he’s still floating on that giddy wave of rage, and he finds himself saying, “And so much more than that.”

Dean has his eyes focused on the table now, trying to work up the nerve to look back at Cas again. He’s 41 years old, for Christ’s sake. Middle-aged men don’t get shy, and they most definitely don’t blush.

Finally, he risks a quick glance over to where Cas is sitting. Cas is still frozen, but he doesn’t look like a kicked puppy anymore. The thing that’s blazing in his eyes doesn’t look like anger anymore either.

In one fluid, graceful motion, Cas kicks his chair out from under the table, rises and grabs Dean’s shirt, shoving him into the wall. Before Dean can so much as process what’s happening, he feels Cas’ soft, dry lips on his own. Dean brings up one of his hands to Cas’ hip and cups his face with the other, deepening their kiss.

**The Past**

The kiss takes Castiel entirely by surprise. Ever since his realization in Lisa’s garden two years ago, he has allowed himself to imagine many times what it would be like to act on his feelings.

But over time, he became more and more convinced that those wonderful images of him and Dean, engaged in every intimate act Castiel has ever observed during his time on Earth, would never become reality. Castiel had fallen too far; done too many awful things during the war.

Not the least of which was his decision to keep his deal with Crowley from Dean. It had taken him too long to realize that leaving Dean out of the loop was exactly the wrong thing to do. Of course Dean had lashed out and turned away from Castiel. He had every right to.

And now here Castiel is anyway, kissing Dean. In Purgatory, of all places. A few days have passed since Dean found him by the side of the river, and if Benny’s calculations are correct, they will reach the portal tomorrow.

They had found a cave to stay the night. Benny had left a few minutes ago, to wash in a stream they’d passed a mile back. Castiel had sat with Dean in the back of the cave, trying to enjoy this sense of closeness, knowing that after the devastation he had wrought, in Heaven and on Earth, he could not leave. He needed to atone; for the rest of eternity if need be. After this night, he would never see Dean again.

Dean had interrupted these unpleasant reflections when he said, “I’m still pissed at you for not answering my prayers.”

Castiel had looked at Dean then, trying to commit every line of his face to memory. “I know. But I explained why I didn’t.”

“Yeah, well.” Castiel’s heart had ached as he watched Dean’s small, bitter smile crinkling the well-worn lines around his eyes. “You could’ve found some way to let me know what you were doing. Or at least let me know that you were alive, for God’s sake.”

Castiel had thought this was a dangerous line of conversation, but eventually, he’d said, “Why do you care if I’m alive? The things I did…”

“Yeah, well, I care, OK?” And then, Castiel had found himself wrapped up in Dean’s arms, Dean’s lips pressing his anger, frustration and every other pent-up emotion into Castiel’s.

Several minutes have passed this way now, their kisses running the gamut from anger to tenderness to quiet desperation and back again.

Finally, Dean moves back and rests his forehead against Castiel’s. “Been wanting to do that for a while,” Dean murmurs, and he’s still close enough that Castiel can feel his breath misting against his cheek.

Castiel can’t help the smile edging its way onto his face. “Me too.”

Dean moves away further, meeting Castiel’s eyes. It’s the first time Castiel has ever seen Dean look shy, and he adds it to the ever-growing list of memories he will treasure when his eternity of loneliness begins tomorrow.

“Hey, after we both get out of here tomorrow, maybe we could…”

Castiel cannot let Dean finish his thought. He will not be leaving, but Dean can’t know that yet. Dean needs to go. He needs to be safe. And Castiel cannot lie to him any more than he already has. Before Dean can get out another word, Castiel kisses him again.

**The Present**

Cas kisses him again, and Dean realizes he’s completely lost track of time. When he finally surfaces to catch his breath, it’s with a smile on his face.

“Wow. Been a long time since we did that.”

“402 days, six hours and 35 minutes.”

Dean can’t help the giddy laugh that bursts out of him at that. “Been counting, have you?”

Cas shrugs, grinning. “It seemed like a significant event at the time.”

Dean’s smile turns a little wistful as he remembers. “Yeah. We were driving to that recycling plant in Omaha to get Dark Kaia’s spear. Fucking tape deck was broken.”

Cas is still grinning. “You didn’t complain once.”

Dean is suddenly feeling shy again when he says, “Yeah, well, I had good company.”

He remembers being surprised at the time how easy it was, just driving along the open road with Cas by his side, even without music to take the awkwardness out of it. There just hadn’t been any awkwardness. 

He’d felt so happy to have a solid lead on defeating Michael, to have Jack back, to have Cas next to him on the bench seat while he tucked into a bacon cheeseburger in a rest-stop parking lot, that he’d just leaned over between bites and kissed him.

Warmed by the memory, Dean reaches out, trying to take Cas’ hand. Cas pulls back. Surprised, Dean looks up to find that Cas’ grin from a minute ago has been replaced by a pained tension that’s practically humming off him.

“What?”

For a minute, it seems like Cas isn’t going to answer, but then: “There _is_ a way to break the deal.”

Figuring the kissing portion of the evening is probably over, Dean sits down again and waves for Cas to do the same. “Tell me,” he says, pouring them both another drink.

Cas heaves a sigh, then says calmly, like he’s discussing the weather, “I’d have to tear out my Grace and become human.”

**The Past**

Being human hasn’t been a pleasant experience for Castiel.

Actually, that’s an understatement. He’s spent most of his human life so far being cold, hungry and otherwise miserable. He’s huddled in alleys, slept curled around his few, meager possessions in men’s shelters, and endured a thousand other small indignities.

A few weeks ago, he’d talked to a counselor in one of the shelters and expressed his frustration with being so utterly dependent on things like a roof over his head, food and, of all things, bathrooms.

The counselor had nodded, all gentle understanding, and told Castiel that the beauty of being human was that the good things far outweighed the bad if you thought about it. Good things like having a sense of purpose, finding a place where you belong, being loved.

As Castiel retrieves a pack of menthol cigarettes for his latest customer, brain working on autopilot to paste a pleasant smile onto his face, he considers these things.

He’d thought he had a purpose: to fix Heaven. That’s lost to him now. Heaven is thoroughly, irretrievably broken, and it’s at least partly his own fault. Metatron had tricked him, but he’d let himself be tricked. He should have been smarter, more wary. He’d wanted to believe that there was a way for him to make up for the mistakes of the past and, as a result, he’d missed the blaring, neon-red warning signs in his own head.

Then there’s his other purpose. The one he’s clung to since he first fell from Heaven: protecting Dean. He’s lost that too. When Dean came to see him a few days ago, they fought a Rit Zien. But if Dean hadn’t shown up at the right moment with an angel blade, Castiel would have been utterly defenseless against his former brother.

Castiel can’t help but wonder whether that was the reason Dean kicked him out of the bunker. Without his powers, he’s dead weight. Just another mouth to feed. So much for “finding a place where you belong.”

Castiel forces a pleasant “come again,” nodding at his last customer of the day. Deep in thought, he walks to the front door and turns the lock. He retrieves his rag from the stock room and begins wiping down the counter, trying to keep from dwelling on the last item on the list. It pushes its way to the front of his mind anyway. “Being loved.”

Unbidden, his thoughts turn again to Dean’s recent visit. His hand stills where it had been scrubbing at a stain next to the hot snack display.

Instead of the last, lonely slice of pepperoni pizza, Castiel sees Dean at his motel room that night, after they’d finished their hunt. He closes his eyes, trying to remember every detail. Dean’s breath on his face, smelling like cheap bourbon. Their lips, slotted together. His thighs, knocking against Dean’s bed. His back, hitting the mattress. His arms, turning them over until Castiel was sitting in Dean’s lap, feeling Dean’s growing erection against his thigh. Dean’s legs, opening up to Castiel, and his mouth, whispering, “Please, Cas. I wanna feel you.”

The tight warmth of being inside Dean’s body. Moving with him, seeking and finding pleasure together. The sheer, overwhelming force of his orgasm, rendering him unable to do anything but chant Dean’s name over and over and over again.

Slowly, those pleasant memories slide away, replaced with what happened next. Dean packing his bag and dropping Castiel at work. Castiel had lingered, waiting for Dean to acknowledge what they’d shared, perhaps even invite him back to the bunker. Dean had done no such thing.

Castiel looks down, realizing he is still holding the rag. He feels at odds with his own body. Can it even rightly be called his own body? Can something he stole ever truly belong to him?

Castiel resolves then that if there is anything whatsoever he can do to regain his powers, he’ll do it.

**The Present**

“Do it.” The words are out of Dean’s mouth before his brain can fully catch up to what Cas is telling him.

Cas raises an eyebrow at him. “Dean, my Grace has been a part of me since I was made. Giving it up voluntarily… it would be like cutting out one of your own organs and trying to live without it.”

Dean knows he needs to tread carefully here. Working hard to keep his voice gentle, he says, “I know it’s not easy, Cas. But you’ve done it before, right? Lived without your Grace? And you were still you.”

“Was I?” Cas stares at him, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. “I was a shadow of my former self. Useless. And, as I remember, you seemed to agree.”

“What?” Dean knows this conversation went off the rails somewhere, but he’s having trouble piecing together exactly how it happened. “What do you mean?”

Cas huffs. “You might remember throwing me out of the bunker?”

“Yeah, but that…”

“I know, I know. You did it to save Sam. Well, you know what? If I hadn’t lost my powers, you wouldn’t have been in that situation in the first place. _I_ could have possessed Sam and healed him.” Cas grabs the bottle off the table and takes a swig, screwing up his face as the burn hits. When he speaks again, all emotion is gone from his voice. “If I hadn’t lost my powers, maybe you would have stayed after we…”

A decade’s worth of holding back his feelings is a mighty thing to struggle against, but Dean knows this is it. This is the chance, and he can’t afford to let it go. Cas’ hand is only a few inches away from his own on the tabletop, but there might as well be miles between them. He reaches out anyway. Slowly, he places his hand on top of Cas’, his thumb brushing over knuckles still bruised from Cas’ fight with the Grigori earlier today.

Surprised, Cas looks up.

Dean swallows.

“Cas, you know why I left that day. To get back to Sammy.” Cas looks as though he wants to interrupt, but Dean tightens his hand around Cas’ to show he isn’t done. “But that’s not the whole story. I…” He forces himself to look up and meet Cas’ eyes. “I thought you wanted me gone.”

Cas looks genuinely taken aback at that, but he doesn’t let go of Dean’s hand. “What?”

“When we were in Purgatory, I thought we’d finally made it past all our crap, you know? It took me forever to find you, but then I did, and we…”

Cas nods. “We kissed.”

“Well… yeah. But it felt like more than that. It felt like the start of something. Maybe, if we were really lucky, a life together.”

Cas’ hold on Dean’s hand tightens almost painfully. “You would have wanted that?”

Dean hesitates a moment, then nods. “Yeah. But when you showed me that memory of pushing me away at the portal, I realized you didn’t feel that way about me.”

“You’re wrong, Dean.” Cas raises his other hand off the table. Slowly, carefully, he brings it up to Dean’s face, stroking a thumb across his cheek. “I did. I still do.”

Dean leans into the touch, a smile breaking across his face. “Then let’s go break a deal.”

**The Past**

“Guys, you’re going to break something,” Castiel says, vaguely annoyed by the fight playing out behind him in the bunker’s kitchen.

As Lucifer smashes something on Crowley’s head, Castiel reaches for the volume knob on the small TV in front of him and turns it up a few notches.

He gives a satisfied hum when he can once again hear Dr. Sexy’s voice emanate from the ancient speaker: “We need to get this man to surgery. Now that his twin is here, we can begin the face transplant.”

As he tries to focus on the events on the screen, Castiel vaguely notices that Crowley is gone, and Lucifer with him. Hopefully, Dean will come back now.

Sure enough, Dean strides into the kitchen a moment later, carrying a bag of groceries.

“Aww man, did I miss the scene where they find the twin? That one’s my favorite.”

Castiel smiles at him. “Hello, Dean. Did you find everything you needed at the store?”

“Yup.” Dean grins happily as he reaches into the bag and unpacks three different spices, a large pack of ground beef, a bag of potato rolls and a truly bewildering assortment of sauces and dips. “These are gonna be the best burgers ever. You ready for burger night?” He gives Castiel a little wink, and Castiel smiles at him fondly. “I can’t wait.”

Dean leans against the counter, crossing his arms and hitching an obviously fake expression of outrage onto his face. “So what? You just gonna sit there all night, watching my favorite show without me, or you gonna come over and help?”

Castiel suddenly has the strangest feeling that Dean has asked him this question, in these exact words, many times before. For a split second, a memory pushes into his mind.

Of himself, standing in a circle of Holy Fire and Dean, calling his name. “Cas! Cas, expel him! You gotta kick Lucifer out! Do you hear me?”

Castiel shakes his head. That can’t be right. Dean is here, with him, and they’re having burger night. Dean is cooking for Castiel, and Castiel is going to make himself useful.

“Don’t worry, Dean,” he says, smiling and crossing the distance between them. “I’ll help.”

**The Present**

“Can I do anything to help?”

They’re sitting in Dean’s room at the bunker, Dean on his bed, Cas in the desk chair, staring down at the knife in his hands. The one that’s going to cut into his throat any minute now, allowing him to rip out his own Grace.

“I… don’t know,” Cas says.

Dean notices Cas’ hands where they’re wrapped around the knife’s hilt. He tries to remember if he’s ever seen them shake like this before.

“Hey, remember that time I made you watch The Last Crusade and you missed the end of the movie because you were so busy ranting about how the Holy Grail in the movie looked nothing like the real Holy Grail?”

Cas is still looking at the knife, but one corner of his mouth turns up in something almost resembling a smile. “I didn’t miss it. I already knew how the movie was going to end.”

Dean is genuinely taken aback at that. “You did?”

Cas doesn’t let go of the knife, but he turns to face Dean, eyes suddenly sparkling with amusement. “When Metatron captured me a few years ago, he became very annoyed with me because I kept not understanding the references he was making. So he gave me his memories of the contents of every work of literature and film ever made.”

Dean can’t help the sinking feeling in his chest. “So every time we’ve watched a movie together, you already knew what was gonna happen?”

Cas shrugs, looking apologetic. “Not every time. Not for movies that were made after what Metatron did.” He puts the knife aside then and slides Dean’s desk chair over to where Dean is sitting on the edge of the bed. “Besides, the most enjoyable part of having movie nights together was how excited you were to share these things with me. That made the experience more than worthwhile.”

Dean can’t help the flush that creeps up his neck at that. “Yeah, well. Do you think you’ll still have those memories after you…” He points back and forth between Cas and the knife.

Cas shrugs, tension creeping back into his posture. “I think so. I didn’t lose my angelic memories the first time I became human. Of course, my Grace was still out there somewhere at the time. This time, it should just… dissipate.”

Dean suddenly feels irresistibly compelled to hold Cas’ hand, and so he does. “It’s not gonna be like last time, okay? I promise you. Human or angel, your home is here. In the bunker.” He swallows, then adds, almost in a whisper, “With me.”

Cas smiles and leans forward to press a gentle kiss to Dean’s forehead. “And if I do lose Metatron’s memories, we’ll just have to watch all those movies again. Together.”

“Yeah,” Dean croaks. “Yeah. We can do that.”

He watches as Cas reaches for the knife and makes a small cut on his throat. Light suffuses the room, bathing Dean’s small, cramped living quarters in a blue glow. Dean watches as Cas touches his fingers to the cut and pulls at something. The light grows in intensity until finally, Dean can’t stand to keep looking at it. He closes his eyes.

**The Past**

When Dean opens his eyes, Castiel smiles at him. “Good morning, Dean.”

It is not the first time he has woken up next to Dean, but it is the first time they have shared a bed without engaging in sex. Somehow, this feels significant to Castiel.

Dean had called him the previous night. Castiel had been hunting Lucifer alongside Crowley — a thoroughly frustrating endeavor — and he’d been pleased to hear from Dean.

When he had heard Dean’s voice on the other end of the line, broken and small, telling Castiel that Mary had left the bunker, Castiel understood. Being left by the people he loved was Dean’s greatest fear. Now, the person at the very root of Dean’s abandonment issues had rejected him.

Castiel had packed up his things and left the motel where he’d been staying before he’d even hung up the phone.

Luckily, he had only been a few hours’ drive away. He’d knocked on Dean’s door, and Dean had collapsed into him, breathing hitched with what sounded suspiciously like sobs.

Castiel had led Dean to his bed and they had lain beside each other under the blankets, Castiel holding on to Dean as tightly as he could, listening until his breathing evened out.

Now, he watches as Dean’s sleep-clouded vision clears, memories of the previous night flooding back. He watches as something shutters behind Dean’s eyes.

Dean shoves aside the covers and scrambles off the bed, reaching for his jeans and pulling them on. “Um… thanks, buddy,” he murmurs, busying himself with pulling a flannel out of the closet and pulling it on. “Sorry to make you come all the way back here. I know you’re busy hunting Lucifer. I’ll, um… I’ll let you get back to that. Sammy’s got a lead on a hunt, so I should… I should find him and talk to him about that. Yeah.”

Castiel watches as Dean walks out of the room, carefully closing the door behind him. He stares at the door for another minute, then gets out of bed and slowly, deliberately, repacks his duffle bag, making sure to leave nothing behind.

**The Present**

Nothing. Darkness. Empty. Castiel’s heartbeat speeds up, fear clogging his throat. The Empty has come for him. After all this, he is facing an eternity of loneliness after all.

Castiel opens his eyes.

He has been asleep.

The reality of that fact takes a minute to sink in. He has been asleep. He is human.

He is in Dean’s room.

He is in Dean’s room, and there is a warm body curled up beside him.

Castiel turns his head to see Dean, impossibly green eyes crinkled with a smile. “Morning. How are you feeling on your first day as Human Cas 2.0?”

Cas takes a moment to consider the question. His throat is sore and aching under the bandage Dean applied to his cut last night. There is a twinge in his back and his scalp itches. He smiles. “Good. I feel good.”

“Glad to hear it.” Dean leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to Castiel's lips. “You hungry?”

Reminded of his newly human body’s needs, Castiel suddenly notices the bone-deep gnawing in his gut. “Yes. God, yes.”

Dean chuckles. “What’re you in the mood for? French toast? Pancakes?”

“Whatever you like, Dean.”

Dean sits up and stretches with a contented little hum. “Pancakes it is. I’ll make you some coffee too. Might even bring it to you in bed if you’re lucky.”

“I’d like that.” Castiel rolls onto his back, watching as Dean pulls on his robe and shoots a cheerful wink at him before he heads to the kitchen. He leaves the door open.

Castiel knows that, being human, he will never be able to see Dean’s soul again. But he has his memories.

“Do not be afraid,” he whispers, knowing that this time, if Dean heard his words, he would understand their meaning. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> If you're interested in Dean's POV of the Season 8/9 memories, I encourage you to check out my previous fic, [Where to, Cas?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22720726) You can also find me on [tumblr](https://friendofcarlotta.tumblr.com).
> 
> If you take a minute to [reblog this fic](https://friendofcarlotta.tumblr.com/post/611048920395677696/missed-connections), you'll be my new favorite person.


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